When it's all be said, there's nothing left to say
It has been a long time since I've posted to this blog, but I awoke one morning and found myself in a quandary. I had been keeping to my normal routine: feed the cats and then myself, read a few newspapers, think about the stories, play with the cats and muse on recent happenings, take care of mundane chores, listen to some music and let my mind wander, but I was suddenly stumped. I'd heard all these recurring stories so many times before and there was nothing left to say.
People who know me will tell you that it is very unusual for me to be at a loss for words. I always have an opinion, a quip, a story, a rant. Silence is not my normal style, although I do sometimes retreat from electronic distractions to regroup and clear my mind. But, this time it was different. This time there seemed to be nothing worth saying simply because it's all been said over and over and it apparently made no difference. Talking is useless unless there is someone to hear. Writing is empty unless there is someone to read and comprehend. Angst is only selfishness turned inward. Depression is sometimes no more than a loss of imagination.
I've always been one to celebrate differences and diversity. Sameness, whether in people, places, activities, or ideas has never appealed to me. No doubt that's one of the reasons I despise shopping malls and am convinced that people who complain of being tired are usually just bored. I've also always found that people who complain readily of being bored are usually boring people, so it's natural that I would resent being bored by the same old stories, the same old problems, the same old warped people and their tendencies, and the same old excuses for never curing any problem, never seeking any solution.
While I'm in this explanatory or confessional mood, I'll also admit to nurturing a fanciful notion about this planet of ours; I always enjoyed thinking of it as being a cosmic garden, an experiment in advanced galactic agriculture seeded by an explosion of nutritious stardust, the watery landscape evolving as natural changes occurred to ultimately result in humanity being the most advanced plantings in that garden. With a nod toward pagan and druid thinking, I suspect that's how we came up with the idea of a 'tree of life' and the concept of 'growing' to be the best we can be.
If my metaphor has merit, there is a natural hazard in gardening and growing things. Disease, pestilence, wind, fungus and drought. Our celestial garden is not in a healthy state. Our most prized plants have mutated to empty shells of their former glory. Strife, stress and sickness in the most basic root of the human soul have weakened the fabric of our very existence. What can any of us say as we watch ugliness consume former beauty and strength? What can we say as we see a fungus of greed invade and alter the symbiosis of one plant to another? What can we do when parasitic plants invade and destroy the growth cycle, suffocating and crushing those elements of fragility and gentleness that give the garden luster? What can we do when the hearts and minds of a wondrous garden are eaten away by bigotry, hatred, fear and horror? It's as though we have purposefully salted the ground and no thing will again be allowed to grow.
When a garden is infected beyond hope of repair, when disease holds sway, when pestilence multiplies beyond the point it can be controlled, there's only one thing that can stop the advance. Everything in the garden must be burned. Fire is the only thing to rectify the problem and purify the ground. Might those cosmic gardeners who first sprinkled their stardust decide the experiment is out of control? Could global warming be the option of cosmic choice - a celestial representation of the fire next time?
When you have nothing left but cannibalistic plants that feed on themselves and eat their own children, what is left to say?
It has been a long time since I've posted to this blog, but I awoke one morning and found myself in a quandary. I had been keeping to my normal routine: feed the cats and then myself, read a few newspapers, think about the stories, play with the cats and muse on recent happenings, take care of mundane chores, listen to some music and let my mind wander, but I was suddenly stumped. I'd heard all these recurring stories so many times before and there was nothing left to say.
People who know me will tell you that it is very unusual for me to be at a loss for words. I always have an opinion, a quip, a story, a rant. Silence is not my normal style, although I do sometimes retreat from electronic distractions to regroup and clear my mind. But, this time it was different. This time there seemed to be nothing worth saying simply because it's all been said over and over and it apparently made no difference. Talking is useless unless there is someone to hear. Writing is empty unless there is someone to read and comprehend. Angst is only selfishness turned inward. Depression is sometimes no more than a loss of imagination.
I've always been one to celebrate differences and diversity. Sameness, whether in people, places, activities, or ideas has never appealed to me. No doubt that's one of the reasons I despise shopping malls and am convinced that people who complain of being tired are usually just bored. I've also always found that people who complain readily of being bored are usually boring people, so it's natural that I would resent being bored by the same old stories, the same old problems, the same old warped people and their tendencies, and the same old excuses for never curing any problem, never seeking any solution.
While I'm in this explanatory or confessional mood, I'll also admit to nurturing a fanciful notion about this planet of ours; I always enjoyed thinking of it as being a cosmic garden, an experiment in advanced galactic agriculture seeded by an explosion of nutritious stardust, the watery landscape evolving as natural changes occurred to ultimately result in humanity being the most advanced plantings in that garden. With a nod toward pagan and druid thinking, I suspect that's how we came up with the idea of a 'tree of life' and the concept of 'growing' to be the best we can be.
If my metaphor has merit, there is a natural hazard in gardening and growing things. Disease, pestilence, wind, fungus and drought. Our celestial garden is not in a healthy state. Our most prized plants have mutated to empty shells of their former glory. Strife, stress and sickness in the most basic root of the human soul have weakened the fabric of our very existence. What can any of us say as we watch ugliness consume former beauty and strength? What can we say as we see a fungus of greed invade and alter the symbiosis of one plant to another? What can we do when parasitic plants invade and destroy the growth cycle, suffocating and crushing those elements of fragility and gentleness that give the garden luster? What can we do when the hearts and minds of a wondrous garden are eaten away by bigotry, hatred, fear and horror? It's as though we have purposefully salted the ground and no thing will again be allowed to grow.
When a garden is infected beyond hope of repair, when disease holds sway, when pestilence multiplies beyond the point it can be controlled, there's only one thing that can stop the advance. Everything in the garden must be burned. Fire is the only thing to rectify the problem and purify the ground. Might those cosmic gardeners who first sprinkled their stardust decide the experiment is out of control? Could global warming be the option of cosmic choice - a celestial representation of the fire next time?
When you have nothing left but cannibalistic plants that feed on themselves and eat their own children, what is left to say?
posted by kaz at 10:01 AM
1 Comments:
Kaz- I know that you of all people can NEVER be at a loss for words. A momentary lapse, perhaps, but I could never envision you speechless.
I love your garden metaphor, though, and I know that it's close to your heart and therefore something about which you write with the greatest passion.
Who among us knows how we'll end up - consumed in a fiery cyclone thrown at us by the cosmos ?
You know, better than most, the enduring and absolute indifference of said cosmos. I actually count on it, as I believe I must; there is nothing more immutable than its rules.
Keep writing, dear friend; it is a huge comfort to me, at the very least. You give me such inspiration in my own writing.
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